


Nine lives

by ToodleOfDeeth



Category: Ghosts (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cats, Extended Metaphors, Gen, Sad with a Happy Ending, Slice of Life, Title is bad, if you get the metaphor you get a gold star and a piece of cake, no proofreading we die if we die, or death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 07:33:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18734485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToodleOfDeeth/pseuds/ToodleOfDeeth
Summary: Mary is the second oldest in the house, and she always did care more for animals than she did for people. Sometimes though, it's hard not to compare the two.





	Nine lives

When Mary worked in the house, there was a snow white and slight cat that went into every nook and cranny to catch rats and mice, which was never to be seen by the current owners, but greatly appreciated by the people that worked there. It didn't really have a name, like most cats do, but most of the women that worked the kitchen called the little thing ‘Catcher’, or ‘Thimble’, depending on whether it was asleep in the sewing basket or chasing rodents. She never saw the cat again after she died, even though life in the manor went on, and so she assumed that like herself, the cat got caught in the fire caused by those paranoid idiots. Witches may very well exist, but she was certain she wasn't one, despite the mole on her cheek.

Mary didn't consider herself a gorgeous woman, nor a horrific looking wretch, but she had to admit that in those brief moments where she caught a glimpse of herself in the many mirrors of the house that she didn't look _too_ bad. Her husband said her hair was thick like a horse’s was, her mole unable to be ignored, and her hands too calloused from labour, but to her those were positive attributes. What got her burned, however, was not any of these things alone, but instead was because of her talking to the cat of the house. The thing loved to listen, you see, blinking its eyes slowly and walking around like a lord, only to then push it’s claws or teeth into a rodent and ponce away.

 

That was hardly the last cat of Button house, however, because when the rich decided to wear ruffled collars instead of sensible clothing there was another cat of note, one called nothing but ‘Pest’ by the gardeners of the house. It scrounged the compost heaps, snuck into the kitchens, and on one occasion went so far as to raid the coops, much to everyone’s dismay. It was hard to love that cat, even when a ghost, as every time Mary went so much as a foot into its space it sprung back like a mousetrap and hissed at where she would be. She could still admire its motives, however, as it stayed there for thirteen long years before passing quietly in a the coal shed.

In some ways Robin reminded her of the cat - sharp eyes and desire to toy with the living. Robin blew out candles, scared the horses, and generally made a nuisance of himself. He didn't take too kindly to Mary at first, seeing as she was getting into what had always been his space, but as soon as he actually used the language he’d been hearing for the past who-knows-how-long he came across as a decent fellow.

 

The third cat came in the 1700s, and while she wasn't entirely sure when it was in that period, she _was_ certain that the little thing was playing a game that it shouldn't have. This one was no rat catcher - it was a Siamese kitten imported for the Lady of the House’s daughter by a lover - who loved to chase things with strings and race up and down the hallways. The cat only lived to be one, as after chasing the young Lady’s dress strings it raced down the stairs, not quite making the turn in time, and slipped through the banisters to the floor below.

Kitty was… interesting. Mary wasn't so sure how she died, or how she lived, but she did know the young woman was as over-friendly as any dog she had ever met. It was truly a shame that she had died so young, as Mary was certain that with enough time and enough world experience she would have made a lovely Lady of the House, but sadly, just like the cat, Kitty never got to see the day she reached her full potential.

 

At the end of the century came another cat. The poor thing was old, with one ear eaten and a limp, but the servants took the cat in anyway and gave it the best life of comfort that they could. Mary never saw what happened to the old thing, but she did see them taking out a cat-sized lump in an old sack a few months later to be buried, the sack itself dry but stained a rust colour.

Humphrey had been charged for a murder he didn't commit, and then executed on grounds that he did not own, only for a letter to be sent to his family back in Cambridgeshire about his downfall after the trial had been and gone. It was an unjust killing in a justice system; the ultimate form of irony, but in the end Humphrey didn't have much to say about it - mostly because his body was in the attic and his head on the driveway.

 

Then came another cat, and with it, a man. Although he looked young, he may have been in his thirties, and the cat he brought with him was completely black, aside from the white mark splashed over its chest. Overall, a handsome young thing that came to outlive its owner. It lived at the house after his death for a couple of months, lying in the library window for most of that time, before being returned to the man’s parents in London.

Thomas cried for two years after his death, watching as his cat got taken away, then his lover married, and finally as the couple died too. His personality was a complete contrast to his pet, caring far too much for his surroundings and morning any loss he came across. He had no interest in Mary or any of the others, but still held fast to them when it came to loyalty. His family and friends may have been alive in London, but after his death he heard no news from them, and so while they might not have been dead, they were certainly dead to him.

 

There wasn't another cat in the house for a few years, or maybe more than a few because it was hard to keep count, but the last cat to have come to the house was there for twenty years, far too long all in all. It came from a breeder, with silver-blue fur and a strut in its step, and wandered the halls and bedrooms alike in search of the best patch of sun, eating sunlight like it was enough to sustain it forever. The Lady of the House loved the sweet thing, grooming it herself and letting it follow her into the gardens, but the Lord of the house did not, claiming that the cat took up too much time and too much of the Lady’s attention. Mary heard it from Thomas - During the dead of night the Lord told the butler to take the thing to the coachman, who then rode off into the dark with it in the back seat, never to be seen again. No one could tell the Lady what had happened, lest the Lord fire them, and so the Lady spent many days calling out into the garden for it, only for it’s gentle meow to never reply.

Then after the cat came the Lady, just as prim and proper, but lacking all of the love Mary had for the cat. Her death was the single greatest act of disrespect that she had ever seen in her death-time, which Fanny was more than aware of. For a long while Mary didn't see much of Fanny, who spent her time standing still and looking over her grounds, standing in rooms she knew her husband didn't frequent to avoid him and making sure her tears couldn't be heard. They all knew what happened. No one mentioned it. There are just some things that you can't say out loud, even if there is no one there to listen.

 

For one hundred or so years there was not another cat that entered Button House, and no other pet either, and Mary felt a longing to do… something. During her days as a ghost there had been plenty of small animals to follow around, even if it was just to observe their little quirks and happenings. But that was the problem with the living - they had a tendency to die.

And die they did. The Captain, Pat and then Julian all came to the house with equally unpleasant deaths, although for at least one of them it wasn't so obvious, and Mary couldn't help but feel envious - how many people would pass through the house before she got another thing to watch idly as it went between the quiet rooms? How long would it be?

 

Then the young couple moved in - Alison and Mike - who brought with them just… stuff. So many belongings and things that it cluttered a single room enough to make it unusable. There was just so much stuff she didn't recognise. Little things, big things, books and blankets and bed sheets, all with funny functions which made odd noises, or had words she didn't know. The way they talked as well was somehow both familiar and alien at once, filtered through an accent she didn't recognise - like her own but simultaneously not. It was enough to make her head spin, but none of the other’s really knew that she felt that way.

“I do suppose they’ll be staying,” Kitty said, her grin as glittery as always. She sat prim and proper in one of the loveseats, her feet together and hands folded in front of her, but the way she leaned forward suggested nothing but interest. Thomas lounged beside her, and together they almost looked like a pair, if he didn't look so miserable Mary might have even said so.

The Captain spoke up, his moustache twitching as if mirrored his displeasure, “Yes, well. With their apparent financial situation, they don't have much choice.”

Someone cleared their throat, and Mary turned to look as Julian swanned over to the group. He adjusted his tie with all the bravery that someone with no trousers on ever have, and said, “Well, yes. It’s about time someone else moved in. Someone who isn't,” His face turned sour, “ _old._ Some fresh faces will do us all some good.”

“Is good.” Robin agreed, “Us need more people. House is too big.”

Pat looked surprised, “Do you really think that?”

“No. Is, like Julian, lies.”

“You mean sarcasm,” Thomas bemoaned.

“Is lies.”

“Sarcasm.”

“It is both,” Fanny interrupted, “Sarcasm is just another form of lying. Now both of you get over yourselves.”

 

They moved in, got settled, and then Alison almost died.

Silence came to the house again.

Julian stayed in the upstairs foyer, Thomas to the library. The Captain sat alone in the parlour and Fanny waited out in the living room, while Pat and Mary waited around in the garden, discussing the logistics of swans. Humphrey wandered, Kitty did too, and Robin waited in the kitchen by the only lit bulb in the house. Mike did not come back at first, but did after at least one night, only to collapse in ‘their’ bed and leave first thing the next day.

When Mary was still alive, the house was a bustling and busy place, with the Lord and Lady’s family visiting almost every week and with a total staff of over fifty, there were always pots boiling, shoes being shined, animals to be fed and farmed, and cats to watch. Now a days it was quieter, almost to the extent where if she strained her ears and listened she could hear the dust settling on the furniture.

Sitting in the main living room (somewhere she never saw when she was still alive) she and Pat watched the leaves blend together into a sea of green.

There was no one in the house, or at least, no one alive.

“When’s it now?” Mary asked, not taking her eyes off the trees.

Pat looked at her from the corner of his eye and then moved away from the window, saying “It’s June, Mary.”

“Do you supposed they’d be comin’ back?”

Pat sighed, “I hope so. Like Julian said (even if he was lying) some fresh faces will do us good. Or even just something living.”

It would be nice to have some living things around here, she thought, but if it’s at the cost of Julian wanting to kill them she would rather them not. “But do you supposed they will?”

Pat didn't say anything at first, and Mary could tell he didn't like what he was going to say anyway. “If I were alive, and something unknown pushed me out of a second floor window, I wouldn't be too keen to come back.”

She pressed her lips together (which were always dry, always tasting like ash), “No. Me neither.”

Pat took his leave, fazing through the door and leaving her alone with her stale five hundred-year-old thoughts. She had to resist the urge to let herself float to the ceiling and into the attic, or to sink into the floor, but as soon as she was almost definitely going to do it, something caught her ear.

A thud, soft like it came from another room, and then a very weak but very much animal yowl. Mary shot up at once, her whole body rigid in a way that would make the Captain proud, and she marched over to the door on the opposite wall to go through. When on the other side, in the dining hall for the servants she paused again, listening with keen ears for the noise again. A minute passed, then another, and a thud came again. She followed it once more, down the hallway and past her old room, past where James the butler used to knit and where Lauren drunk the cider she stole from the chef, and into the room at the end of the hall - an old broom cupboard that someone had remodelled to be a wardrobe.

For a moment she didn't move, waiting to see if the thud came again. It didn't, but instead came shuffling, like mice moving behind the wall, but Mary could wait no longer. She put her head through the ajar door.

A mother cat, mostly white, with eight calico kittens shuffled in a nest of old coats and 100-year-old mink scarves. The mother pays her no mind, licking the scruff of the mostly-black kitten with a splash of white on its chest. Another cat, this one a grey and orange mess, fights its way over the others to approach her, and the mother cat finally looks up to see the woman in the door.

It doesn't hiss, or bite, or pull the kittens away, but it most definitely sees her. She blinks at it slowly, as the cats did to her, and the mother blinks back.

She pulls herself from the door with a smile as wide as her face and a heart phantom throbbing with adoration. Down the hallway Fanny looks at her, a scowl on her face.

“What on earth are you grinning about? Showing one’s teeth like that is most unsightly.”

“It’s a stray,” Mary says in way of an explanation, “It’s a mothers, with kitties!”

Fanny’s eyebrows go up and instead of arguing against the possibility she walks over, comes between Mary and the door, and puts her head through too. She pulled herself back out.

“Well I never!” Fanny’s face is split with a smile too, but does her best to sound annoyed, “A flea-bitten stray making a mess of my old rabbit gloves! What has this house come to?” She storms off, still smiling but muttering to herself under her breath. Mary stays at the end of the hall for a moment, making sure to see that Fanny is gone, before looking back into the den.

 _Eight kittens and a cat,_ Mary thought to herself. _Now there is definitely something still living in Button House._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! There might be a few spelling or grammer errors as this was originally supposed to be two pieces that i stuck together with paper mâché. It warms my heart to see that this fandom has begun to blossom, and so I hope you all enjoyed this :)  
> as always, please leave kudos, comments and bookmarks to warm my cold, dead heart.


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